End of the World
by Garbage and City Lights
Summary: My first Josiah fic, be gentle. All flames will be used to roast marshmallows and distribute them among the poor. What exactly happened the night Josiah killed the preachers? Well, read and find out. PG-13 for mild language and violence. Heavy angst, kind
1. Justice

--I don't own Josiah or the preachers. Everyone else is mine. The song is property of REM. Thanks to all my friends who read this as I wrote it.--_  
  
It's the end of the world as we know it  
It's the end of the world as we know it  
It's the end of the world as we know it  
And I feel fine  
--_from _End of the World _by REM  
  
There was a scream.  
  
The cornfield echoed with it. Echoed and rang and nearly vibrated with it until it seemed the stalks were screaming too. Screaming, screaming, _screaming _in pain and terror, _screaming --_  
  
The boy ran.  
  
He pumped his legs and forced air into his already burning lungs. He had to get away from the sound. They were screaming, the corn was screaming, everything was screaming -- he couldn't _take _the screaming... The boy stumbled and righted himself quickly. Run. Run. Run. Eventually, he could outrun the sound, and then the scream wouldn't be so clear and sharp in his ears. It wouldn't echo so terribly, it wouldn't pierce his mind, it wouldn't remind him of what he had just done--  
  
No. No thinking. It was not time to think.  
  
It was time to _run._  
  


---  


  
The girl lit a candle carefully. It was nighttime, and without Mama and Papa home, she would _not _stay in the dark. Darkness was frightening, and it brought bad things on. She glanced out the window idly, shaking out the match. Full moon. _Bad omen, _her mind said quietly, and she shuddered. _Bad omen._  
  
There was a sudden thundering at the door.  
  
The girl jumped, alarmed. _Bad omen, _her mind said again, not so quiet this time. She pushed a handful of brown hair out of her eyes.  
"Being silly," she muttered, half to herself. Papa always told her she was too much like her mother, believing in silly things like omens and old wive's tales. The only thing that she should believe in was the Lord above and the miracles he made happen. Absently, she headed for the door and touched the handle. _Bad omen! _her mind cried, but she didn't pay it any mind. The door opened.  
  


---  


  
The boy took in his breath in great, heaving gulps. His chest was on fire. That's what it felt like, at least; he was sure he'd glance down and see his shirt aflame. And he couldn't breathe, oh he couldn't _breathe--_  
  
He looked up in mild surprise to see the door open. It was a little house, modest and simple. Practical. Just like all the others. From the door flowed light, dim but comforting, and in the light stood a shadow. A person.  
"I didn't mean to," he gasped, clutching his burning chest with one hand. "I'm sor--"  
  
Then the ground was flying towards him with alarming speed and everything plunged into darkness.  
  


---  


  
She stared at him in abstract bewilderment. The boy now lay face-first in the dirt, his body heaving with irregular breaths. His hands, which were slender and unmoving, were covered in a dark, thick mud. It was quite obvious that something was not right in this situation. _But Papa always says, _her mind piped up eagerly. _He always says to remember the lesson of the Good Samaritan. He helped one in need and was repayed tenfold. _The girl hesitated, chewing her lower lip unsurely. Something wasn't right -- but it wouldn't be right to leave him out there in the dirt, either. She hurried down from the porch.  
"Hello?" the girl murmured, swallowing uncertainty from her now narrow throat. "Sir? Boy?" She nudged him slightly with her toe. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to go back into the house, but she couldn't do it. The boy moaned softly. "Sir?" she said again.  
"Mmph. Mm. _Au-u-u-u-gh..."_ She drew back sharply. It was a horrible sound, a groan of agony and pure weariness. The girl dropped quickly to a knee, realizing that the scene was more serious than she had anticipated.  
"Can you hear me?" she murmured. The words sounded silly to her ears; he looked to be in a dead faint. But there was always the chance. "Can you hear me, sir? Sir?"  
"I'm hot," the boy whispered through too-dry lips. She sucked in her breath sharply, making her chest ache unexpectedly. So he _was _awake. Maybe not coherent, but awake.  
"Into the house." The words were out before she could manage to repress them. "We're going to go into the house. Do you think you can try to stand?"  
"I'm _hot," _he rasped again, as if it were a perfectly logical reason to stay face-first in the dirt. "Chest hurts. Can't breathe." The girl glanced around briefly. Shouldn't there be someone with him? She looked back down to the boy and felt a short wave of familiarity. Then it passed.  
"Come on," she said gently, and slung his arm over her shoulder. "Try to put some weight on your feet. Try." The boy's legs buckled at first as they rose to a slight standing position. She almost fell herself with his weight -- he was surprisingly heavy.  
"Can't breathe," he repeated.  
"You're doing all right. Now see if we can get up the stairs, okay?" Slowly but surely, they took awkward steps and made it into the house.  
  


---  


  
The boy's vision had been lapsing into blurs of gray for the past couple of minutes. When he finally blinked it away, he found himself awkwardly situated on a bed. A fuzzy shadow was moving threateningly around in one corner.  
"I didn't mean to," the boy said immediately, voice rising in high panic. "I didn't _mean _to, I didn't _want _to, but they--"  
"You're awake," the shadow said calmly. It moved closer and slowly became a girl -- a teenage girl with tawny brown hair and pale green eyes. He swallowed the rising panic and fear from his throat.  
"I didn't--"  
"Calm down." She pressed her hand briefly against his cheek, and the boy jerked away, alarmed. "You're really warm." Her tanned face broke into a meek grin for a moment. "Be right back. I'm going to get some water, okay?" He swallowed again, forcing the lump of dread into his stomach.  
"Please don't tell anyone," he pleaded, and clasped his dirty hands together in desperation. "Please don't tell. Please." The girl paused at the door, one palm pressed firmly against the wood.  
"Don't tell anyone what?" she asked, sounding confused. Without waiting for an answer, she held up one long, slender finger for silence. "I'll be right back, I promise. Stay right there, don't get up." And the girl disappeared past the door.  
  


---  


  
She wiped her hand idly on the skirt of her pale blue dress. They'd become dirty with the mud the boy was covered with.  
"Delirious," she whispered, hurrying into the kitchen for water. Because that's what he most certainly was, delirious; he was babbling. Pure and simple. The girl quickly filled a glass with water, then paused, considering. After a moment, she filled a bowl too and got a rag from the clean laundry. When she got back to her bedroom, the boy had stopped mumbling and was staring blankly at the ceiling.  
"Didn't want to," he said softly as she entered. The girl sat beside his bed and offered the glass of water.  
"Drink," she ordered. "You've got a fever. You need cold water." It wasn't as if he needed encouragement. The boy sipped eagerly, then took the glass from her with shaky hands. She dipped the rag briefly in the water and rung it out.  
"Thank you," he said quietly, and took another gulp.  
"You're welcome." The girl paused, watching him carefully. He looked _so _familiar... red hair with a slight curl; cloudy, mysterious eyes; surprisingly pale under his freckles. Where on _earth _had she seen him before? "What's your name?" she murmured, pressing the damp rag gently against his forehead. The boy jerked away, apparently surprised at the temperature of the water.  
"Yours first," he said with a startling amount of caution. She blinked, then dipped the rag in the water.  
"Olivia." She smiled warmly, forcing hospitality to her face. "Olivia Stratford." The girl dabbed carefully at his cheek and he flinched again. "Yours, Mr. Mystery?"  
"Josiah," he muttered. And _then _it hit her.  
"Josiah?" Olivia gasped, nearly dropping the rag into his lap. "As in-- Josiah, the Amazing Boy Preacher?" The boy's red brows knitted defensively.  
"No," he said sullenly. "Just _Josiah."_ Olivia paused, then forced another smile. This one didn't come out as warm as she had intended.  
"Sorry. Just Josiah, I've got it." She mopped his brow gently and re-dipped the rag in the bowl. "What happened, Josiah?" Josiah didn't pull away this time; his hands twisted together nervously, then finally hid beneath the blankets.  
"Nothing," he whispered, cloudy eyes narrowing. "Nothing happened."  
  


---  


  
Josiah was suddenly and fully aware of the danger of being here. The gray haze had slowly ebbed away, leaving him tired and sore but finally able to think clearly. The girl -- Olivia, was that her name? -- recognized him. _Not good, _his mind said dully, sounding rather like a sullen child pouting in the corner. _Not good at all._  
"I don't believe that," Olivia said casually, pressing the rag to his forehead again. Damnation, why did it have to be so _cold?_ "Not one bit. No one runs like a madman and collapses on the ground when 'nothing happened'." Josiah let out a shaky sigh, half weary and half defeated. She wasn't so stupid as to put all the evidence behind her, he knew that. He was just hoping against it.  
"Nothing important," he corrected quietly, and flinched as the rag was pressed against his neck. Sure, he felt like a human bonfire, but the sudden shock of cold wasn't so pleasant either. "Stop," Josiah complained, jerking violently out of reach. Olivia blinked in surprise, the rag poised in mid-air.  
"What's wrong?"  
"That's _cold." _He covered his face with his arms in a childish gesture of defense. "Stop it." There was a long silence before she pressed the rag to the nape of his neck, making Josiah yelp in surprise.  
"I'm sorry, but you're running an awfully high fever, and your cheeks are really flushed. You have to cool down somehow."  
_"Stop," _he said again, voice breaking into a whine. He lowered his arms to look at Olivia, who was re-wetting the rag in preparation for another onslaught.  
"Josiah," she murmured, and he frowned at the fact that she was ignoring him. "What really happened? Who were you running from?"  
"No one." Josiah stiffened stubbornly. "That's what I told you before."  
"Stop being so hostile," Olivia said pleasantly, and pressed the rag to his cheek. He winced, but didn't complain this time. "Now, really -- tell me the truth. What happened?"  
  
Josiah clenched his teeth, pressed his lips tightly together, and remained silent.  
  


---  


  
Olivia discarded the rag for the moment and reached for the glass of water he'd set aside. Its smooth surface was slick with beads of sweat -- much like Josiah's forehead.  
"Fine. Don't talk if you don't want to." She offered the glass towards him and smiled carefully. "But at least drink. We have to get your temperature down." The boy's cloudy eyes narrowed; for one long moment she thought he was going to knock the glass out of her hands. Then Josiah took it from her and sipped obediently. Olivia's smile widened a little, mostly in relief. "Thank you."  
"Mmph." He didn't say anything else, just took another gulp of water. It wasn't hard to get him to drink, at least.  
  
But Olivia was certain of at least _one _thing -- this boy _was _Josiah the Amazing Boy Preacher. Mama and Papa had dragged her to a sermon months ago, and she had thought it was rather odd. It wasn't in a church, but rather in big airy tents. The hard-eyed preachers had taken their money with an almost startling eagerness, then lead them to the main tent. There were makeshift pews set up rather haphazardly, and before them all was an altar with an absurdly large cross adorning it. Behind it had stood a boy, no older than fourteen, dressed in the serious black garb of a priest. His red hair was hidden by a large black hat that seemed much too big for his small face. But he had remained solemn and stony -- then, when the pews were filled, he began to speak.  
  
Oh, the _feeling _in his voice!  
  
He spoke each reading and scripture with such deep intensity that Olivia was immediately shocked. It was almost frightening how pallid his face became, how tightly his skin became stretched across his cheeks as he told them the word of the Lord. And his eyes, oh _God _his _eyes...  
  
_The whole experience had given Olivia the heebie-jeebies.  
  
After the service, the preachers wouldn't allow Josiah to speak with the spectators. They ushered him away into another breezy tent -- but not before he stole a glance over his shoulder. The horrible sadness in his face was almost painful, Olivia had noted, and he was still terribly pale. She decided immediately she would not attend any more of Josiah's readings, and though Mama and Papa had tried, she wouldn't be budged. There was no God in those preachers -- only lust for money. It was painfully obvious, and her belief in the Lord was sure to be marred if she spent every Sunday there. And so her parents had gone, and Olivia hadn't seen Josiah since.  
  
Until now.  
  


---  


  
Josiah watched as the girl drifted off into thought, wringing the rag slowly over the bowl. Thinking was not good, he noted dully -- it meant she was probably thinking of something... well, something not good. Thinking most likely meant plotting.  
"Here--" Olivia suddenly snapped back to the here and now and took the glass from him. "--I'll go get you more water. Be right back." She heaved herself from the bedside chair and disappeared out the door. Josiah watched her leave with a kind of dull wariness.  
"She knows," he muttered, bringing his palms to his sweaty face. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she _knows--" _ His hands were slick with something other than sweat, however, and he pulled them quickly away from his cheeks to inspect them. Josiah's breath caught painfully in his throat. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he murmured again. His hands were covered with the blood of the preachers.  
  


---  


  
Olivia re-filled the glass with cold, clear water.  
"Amazing Boy Preacher," she said softly, wiping her hands on her dress again. Something about the words sounded wrong. Olivia frowned slightly, then began for the bedroom again. She paused briefly and realized that there was a smear of mud on her cheek. Idly, a hand was brought up to wipe it away, but Olivia stopped to stare at the dark smear that was now on the back of her hand. It wasn't mud -- too dark to be mud. Too dark and too _red._  
  
Blood.  
  
She looked frantically at the pale blue material of her skirt, where she had wiped the so-called "mud" earlier. The smears, in the messy shape of four fingers, were an ugly rust brown.  
  
Blood.  
  
And Josiah had been covered in it.  
  


---  


  
Josiah was desperately trying to get the drying blood off of his hands when Olivia returned. She had the promised water -- and an armful of gauzy bandages.  
"You're bleeding," she said shortly, sitting down beside the bed. Josiah's brows met in confusion.  
"What?" But by then, he had it figured out. The girl had seen the blood and thought it must be his. _She's almost got it, _Josiah thought drily.  
"You're bleeding," she repeated patiently, and dipped the rag in the water again. "Let me see your hands." He shook his head slowly, but held out his hands anyway.  
"I'm _not--_"  
"Quiet." Olivia was cleaning his hands carefully with the rag, wiping away the ugly red-brown smears. After a few moments, when his fingers were clean, she lowered them and rinsed the rag in the bowl. "Doesn't seem to be your hands," she said almost conversationally, and wrung out the rag. Josiah saw with faint disgust that the water in the bowl had started to turn brownish.  
"I'm not bleeding," he said stiffly. It was bad enough that she'd noticed, and now she was dragging it out. Olivia ignored him.  
"Turn your head a little, please," she murmured. Josiah let out a breath of frustration.  
"But I'm not _bleeding!"  
_"Don't yell." Olivia was checking his face for cuts anyway, dabbing at the runnels of sweat and dirt on his temples. "There's no reason to be hostile."  
"I have _plenty _of reason to be hostile," Josiah muttered, mostly to himself. Because he couldn't yell at her now; he'd noticed something behind her steady voice -- something that said, "I'm very nervous right now but I'm staying calm because I have to." He didn't like that undertone.  
"I don't understand," Olivia mumbled, rinsing the rag again. Dirt and sweat mixed with the faintly blood-tainted water, and Josiah glanced away. The sight made his stomach turn.  
"I told you," he said quietly, keeping his voice even. "I'm not bleeding." There was a short pause. Olivia set aside the bowl and offered him the glass of water.  
"Drink." Josiah inhaled deeply and frowned.  
"But--"  
_"Drink," _she repeated, and Josiah drank.  
  


---  


  
As the boy gulped more of the cold water, Olivia watched impassively. Alarms were going off in her head so loudly that her ears were nearly ringing. _It's not his blood, _her mind whispered, sounding utterly shocked. _It's not his, so it must be someone else's--_  
"Josiah," she said evenly, pulling away the glass. "What happened?" He stared at her for one long, silent moment, then wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand.  
"I think you already know," he muttered. Olivia set the glass on the bedside table, making sure to keep her poker face steady. It was crucial to be calm at this point.  
"Perhaps." She shot the bandages on the bed a sidelong glance. "I know we won't be needing those."  
"No," Josiah murmured, his eyes darkening. "No, I don't think we'll be needing those." Olivia folded her hands neatly in her lap and hoped they'd stop shaking.  
"You are the Amazing Boy Preacher, aren't you?" It wasn't a question, really; more of a statement. He nodded wordlessly. Olivia took a deep breath, then asked, "Josiah... what happened?" There was another long silence before the boy looked up. His eyes were cloudy and dark beneath the shadows, frightening in their intensity.  
  
Almost immediately, she knew what had happened.  
  


---  


  
_She wants to know, does she? _his mind snarled as he stared at the girl. _Fine, then. Fine. She'll know. And she'll regret it.  
_"Did you ever attend any of my readings?" Josiah asked softly. Olivia nodded.  
"Once." He looked briefly up at the ceiling, then back to the girl.  
"Then you saw the preachers." Her mouth twitched a bit, half grimace and half sneer.  
"Yes," she murmured. "They didn't seem at all like messengers of God." Josiah blinked in surprise, then chuckled low under his breath.  
"You're a good judge of character." It was slightly startling; no one _ever _seemed to think of the preachers as anything but pious. After all, they had taken in the pathetic, unwanted creature and taught him to love God, hadn't they?  
"What do you mean?" asked Olivia slowly, startling him out of his thoughts. Josiah recovered by smiling thinly.  
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." The girl crossed her arms comfortably over her chest.  
"How do you know?" she asked, voice even. "You haven't even given me a chance to listen." Her words surprised him; Josiah squinted a little. Did she _really _want to know the whole story? _What if it's a trick? _his mind asked tiredly, but it was too late for that. If she wanted him gone -- or worse -- she'd have plenty of chances to get rid of him. There was no turning back now. And besides -- Josiah's head was starting to ache. The dull pounding ruled out any more dodging of the truth. Olivia smiled reassuringly and gave him a little nod. "I wouldn't be so quick to judge. I just might prove you wrong."  
"You might," he said shortly, and told her everything.  
  



	2. Punishment

--I don't own Josiah or the preachers. Everyone else is mine. The only reason this is two chapters is because it wouldn't all fit in one text document.--  
  
Olivia listened with rapt attention. Josiah had told her how the preachers took him in, how he learned to preach, how they discovered his talent and exploited it. He had just finished describing the first sermon that he'd done as the Amazing Boy Preacher when Josiah halted.  
"Well?" Olivia asked, and immediately thought she sounded too eager. He took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling as if the next part of the story were written there.  
"They made a lot of money off of me, the preachers. But--" Josiah sighed in frustration and dragged a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Olivia offered the glass of water again, but he pushed it away. "--they thought I was getting too -- too _old _to be the Amazing Boy Preacher." She raised her eyebrows, setting the glass on the nightstand again.  
"You don't look too old," Olivia said slowly. Josiah glanced at her briefly, then back at the ceiling.  
"They tried to stunt my growth." He paused; Olivia frowned slightly.  
"Stunt your growth? How?" Josiah took another deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose.  
"Wouldn't let me sleep," he said softly. She tilted her head a little.  
"They wouldn't let you--"  
"No," Josiah interrupted, and plowed on. "Wouldn't let me sleep at night. They fed me something -- something silver, I don't know what it was--" His hands gestured helplessly over the white sheets. "--but it made me feel bad." Josiah paused, then added hurriedly, "Sick. It made me feel sick."  
"Why on earth did you stay, then?" Olivia asked, shocked. Things were serious, oh yes. Much more serious than she'd thought. Josiah's red brows met and twisted in distress.  
"Where else was there to go?" He sounded miserable. "And besides, they wouldn't let me leave. Not with the money rolling in." Olivia recovered and patted his hand in what she hoped was a comforting manner. Josiah jerked away convulsively, however, and she blinked in surprise.  
"Go on," she said softly. Looking embarrassed, the boy went on, hands twisting worriedly in his lap.  
"But I kept looking older. It worried the preachers. So they -- they did what they thought they had to." There was a terrible darkness to his words. Olivia squinted at him, not understanding.  
"What did they do?" He looked up at her, eyes clouded over and hazy. It hit her that suddenly, sudden absolute realization. Olivia swallowed, her throat feeling tight and narrow. "Josiah," she whispered. "How old are you?"  
"They took the step," he said quietly, ignoring her question. "They did what they thought they had to do."  
"How old are you?" Olivia repeated. Josiah still didn't answer; his forehead, which had grown even paler, wrinkled in distress.  
"They assured it that the money would continue to roll in." He glanced at the ceiling again. Olivia dropped the question -- it was obvious it wasn't going to be answered -- and offered the glass of water to Josiah.  
"Take a drink," she said softly. "You look sick." He shook his head, flinging droplets of sweat into the air.  
"No," Josiah said, voice rising. "No, I need to finish." Olivia set the glass aside and groped for the rag.  
"Calm down, Josiah," she murmured, taking the bowl in her hands. "You're making yourself--"  
"I'm not crazy!" he cried. Olivia jumped, startled, and Josiah shook his head even harder. "I'm not crazy, don't say I am!" She wrung out the rag, watching him carefully.  
"I didn't say that. Now hold still--" Her hand went up to dab at his forehead as she cradled the bowl in one arm. The moment she pressed the rag to his brow, Josiah jerked convulsively away.  
"I'm not crazy! I'm _not!" _Olivia bit her lip and dabbed again at his forehead, more carefully this time.  
"I never said--" Josiah drew back again, harder than before.  
"I'm _not!" _he cried, and struck out blindly with a fist. Olivia reacted just in time; she leaned back quickly, but the bowl of water remained in the line of fire. It hit Josiah's fist hard and went flying. The porcelain shattered against the floor, exploding in a flurry of water and white shards. There was a very long, very thick silence as they both stared at the mess. "I'm sorry," Josiah whispered, and buried his face in his hands. Olivia recovered quickly, trying to seem calm.  
"It's all right," she murmured, then set the rag aside. "I'll clean it up. You finish your story."  
  


---  


  
Josiah stared at the shattered porcelain shards, feeling the color rise in his cheeks. It was there again. The anger, pure and black and frighteningly intense, had swelled behind his chest and exploded. Just like in the cornfield. With the preachers.  
"Sorry," he murmured again, and inhaled deeply to force the anger back. Olivia had already stood and was bent over the broken bowl, picking up the shattered pieces carefully.  
"No problem," she said calmly. "Just go on." Josiah looked back down to his hands and began twisting them worriedly.  
"Once it was certain that... that I'd keep the money coming, the preachers made me do even more sermons." He let out a shaky breath. "But someone... someone found out."  
"Found out about what?" Olivia asked softly, wrapping the sharp pieces in the wet rag and setting them aside. Josiah shot her a sidelong glance. Surely she'd figured it out by now.  
"The step the preachers took." He waved his hands around helplessly. "The step to... to make me stay young." Olivia's tawny brown eyebrows met in a frown, then slowly smoothed.  
"Oh... _oh," _she murmured, and nodded. "I... I think I see." Josiah nodded tiredly.  
"I thought you would." He sighed, then rubbed at his eyes and continued. "Well, after the townspeople knew, no one wanted to see the Amazing Boy Preacher. After all, who would want to listen to a child preach when that child was no longer in the service of God?" Olivia sat down beside the bed again, running a hand through her hair.  
"Mm hm. And?" Josiah stared at the ceiling. Here was the painful part.  
"Well," he said slowly, "no more sermons meant no more money. And with no more money, well -- all I was doing was costing them money. No longer pulling my weight, I guess." Olivia chewed her lower lip uncertainly.  
"And?" she said again.  
"They did what they thought they had to do." It wasn't the first time he'd said that, but it certainly seemed appropriate. The preachers thought they had to, and so they did. "They... they left me in the cornfield and told me that my usefulness had run out." Olivia was silent for a moment.  
"They -- they just left you?" Josiah nodded, swallowing the painful lump in his throat.  
"Yes. Told me they'd be packing up the tents and not to show up again." Something in his chest twisted sharply; he hurried on, trying to keep the anger at bay a little while longer. "That was about two days ago."  
"So -- what happened after that?" Olivia asked quietly. Josiah let out a shaky breath.  
"I waited in the cornfield for a few days. I didn't have much food, so after a while I started to feel... bad."  
"Sick," she said gently.  
"Sick," he agreed, and went on. "And then, tonight, the preachers went by the cornfield." Here he halted. Josiah twisted his hands together, staring at them silently. Olivia touched his shoulder lightly.  
"Go on."  
"I saw them," he murmured. "I saw them, and I -- I was so _angry, _angry because they'd only told me lies and used me, and they didn't even have the decency to say they were sorry--" Olivia touched his shoulder again, gripping it gently.  
"Calm down." She smiled a little. "It can't be that--" Josiah glanced up, frowning.  
"Yes -- yes, it is." Olivia's smile slowly faded.  
"Oh. You mean, then -- that blood on your hands--" He winced, twisting his hands until they hurt.  
"Yes," Josiah whispered. He paused, then smiled mirthlessly at the ceiling. "After all, the Lord says: 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you'." Olivia was silent for one long moment.  
"I don't think that's quite what He meant," she murmured. Josiah let his eyes drift closed and gave his hands another painful twist.  
"Yes," he said softly, and the preacher's screams echoed in his ears again. "I know."  
  


---  


  
She had expected the story to end that way. Nevertheless, Olivia felt a dim sort of shock and horror as she stared at the unmoving Josiah. _He killed them, _her mind said in a startled whisper. _He killed them, and he could do it to you too._  
"It was their own fault." She was surprised to hear herself speaking, and was especially surprised at what she was saying. It startled Josiah, too; he opened his eyes. "If what you say is true," Olivia went on quietly, "then the preachers had it coming to them. They were false in their belief of the Lord, and they used you -- and His word -- to benefit themselves." Josiah watched her silently, brows knitting in confusion.  
"Are you saying that what I did was right?" he murmured. Olivia paused, then shook her head.  
"No. What I'm saying is that -- well --" She chewed her lower lip, searching for words. "-- what goes around comes around, I guess." Josiah squinted a little.  
"The Lord works in mysterious ways," he mumbled, and gave his hands another worried twist. "But I do not think that this is His doing." Then his face clouded over; Josiah grabbed for her hand. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" Olivia paused, then shook her head slowly.  
"No. I won't tell anyone." Slowly, carefully, Josiah smiled.  
  


---  


  
He released her hand.  
"Thank you." Olivia smiled back, getting to her feet.  
"It's not my job to judge anyone, Josiah. Only the Lord can do that, and I think He will forgive you." She picked up the rag with the broken bowl in it and headed for the door. "I'll be back later. I'm going to go throw this away."  
"All right," he said, and was surprised to hear that his voice was hoarse.  
"Try and get some sleep," Olivia advised gently. "You look like hell." _How ironic, _he thought drily, but managed a soft chuckle.  
"I'll try." Olivia smiled again, then closed the door behind her, plunging the room into the hazy darkness of night.  
  


---  


  
Olivia unwrapped the porcelain pieces carefully and put them on the table.  
"Mama's going to be upset," she murmured, staring at the white shards. It had been an antique, she thought -- but then again, with Mama, everything they owned was antique and anything broken was an unthinkable disaster. Tossing the rag in the pile of dirty laundry, Olivia headed for the window. Paranoia, she imagined. But it was a reasonable fear; there was a very good chance someone would have seen Josiah. She pushed the curtain aside and glanced out.  
"Is there anyone there?" Olivia whirled, surprised at the soft, careful voice at the door. Josiah was standing there, looking pale and miserable as he leaned against the doorframe.  
"No," she murmured, shaking her head. "I don't think so. Go back to bed, Josiah." Olivia turned back to the window and looked around briefly. There _wasn't _anyone there, she confirmed, but there was always that one chance.  
"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.  
"Positive," Olivia said firmly. "Go back to bed." There was a long moment of silence before soft footfalls trailed back into the bedroom. A door shut, and it was unsettlingly quiet again.  
  
Olivia flicked her gaze around the front yard again. There was no one out there -- so why did she feel so nervous?  
"I must be crazy," she mumbled to herself, and laughed softly. Josiah had been denying that same fact earlier. Olivia began to turn away from the window -- then stopped. She squinted at the dirt of their yard. There was an odd, straggly path leading to the front porch. Heavy, scraping footprints, and a dark spattering of mud -- no, _blood --_ stood out quite clearly on the dirt of the yard. "Oh, no," Olivia murmured, running for the door. It had to be cleaned up -- _quickly._ She stumbled outside and bent low to the ground to see it better. Yes, it was blood. Olivia kicked at the blood-spattered dirt to get rid of the ugly path. If someone saw--  
  
"...this way. I think I heard something."  
  
Olivia looked up in panic, ears straining to better hear the voices.  
"...sure?" The sounds were faint and drifted lazily towards the house. "...thought...this way."  
"No. Over here... on the ground." Olivia began stamping the ground frantically, trying to rid the dirt of the accusing blood and footprints.  
"...standing... is that... Stratford's girl?" _Oh no, _her mind whispered as she kicked the dirt again. _Oh no, oh no, oh NO--_  
"Olivia?" murmured someone, and she looked up. There was a group of men standing there; she recognized most of them from town. They held homemade torches and farm tools. _Weapons, _Olivia thought drily, and nearly laughed.  
"Go away," she said softly.  
"Olivia," repeated the man, and he stepped closer. She realized it was Peter, one of Papa's friends.  
"Go. _Away." _Olivia hurried to her feet, backing towards the door.  
"We're looking for a boy," Peter said gently. "He's very dangerous. Have you seen him?" But the others had already started to close in.  
"Stay out of my house!" Olivia cried, and rushed inside, locking the door behind her.  
  


---  


  
Dim yelling from outside awoke Josiah from a fitful sleep. He stumbled to his feet and looked briefly out the window.  
"Oh _no," _he whispered, and hurriedly released the curtain. It was what he could only describe as a mob -- a group of men carrying torches and weapons. Looking for him. The door to the bedroom opened noisily, startling Josiah. He whirled to see Olivia, looking pale and out of breath.  
"Hide," she gasped.  
"What's going--"  
_"Hide," _Olivia repeated, and glanced around the room frantically. Josiah noted that there weren't any good hiding places: the bed and the small closet.  
"Just let them take me," he said softly. Olivia paused, then shook her head hard.  
"No." She seized him by the arm and ushered him towards the closet. "Stay in there and don't come out. I'm going to make them leave." Josiah stumbled into the closet.  
"Don't--"  
"Stay here," Olivia whispered, and closed the door.  
  


---  


  
She hurried back out into the living room, peering out the window. They were still out there, and working on the door.  
"Olivia!" cried Peter, and pounded on the wooden door hard enough to shake it. "Olivia, let us in! That boy is dangerous!"  
"Go away!" Olivia pressed her back to the door. "You have no right to--"  
"He killed the preachers, Olivia!" Peter bellowed, and thumped again. "Let us in!" She opened her mouth to yell again, but a window shattered and Olivia whirled.  
"What are you _doing?!" _she screamed, watching in horror as the men climbed in through the window. "Get _out! _Out of my house!" Peter was the third to slip through.  
"Where's the boy, Olivia?" She stared at him in disbelief, then launched herself at Peter.  
"Get _out--" _she began, but one of the other men seized her from behind. Peter looked surprised for a moment, then recovered.  
"Keep her out here," he ordered, and looked to the rest of the men. "The bedroom." They opened the door to the bedroom, brandishing their farm tools. _They look ridiculous, _Olivia thought, and bit back near-hysterical laughter.  
"Let me go!" she shrieked, struggling violently. But the man who held her was 150 pounds heavier and at least 15 years older than she was, so he certainly had the advantage. There was a loud scuffling of feet, the banging of a door, and a soft cry.  
"Murderer!" shouted Peter, and reappeared. He and the three other men were dragging Josiah through the living room. Josiah's face was paper white.  
"No!" Olivia cried, and bucked violently.  
"Take 'im out to the fields," Peter said grimly, and began hauling Josiah outside.  
_"No!" _she shrieked again. The man holding Olivia gave her a hard shove towards the door. Over the sounds of her own struggling and the cries of the townspeople, she could hear Josiah faintly.  
  
He was crying.  
  


---  


  
The men dragged him into the fields and began binding him messily to a pole they'd brought. Josiah was dimly aware of his own sobbing; his chest was heaving and his face was wet with tears, but terror had made him numb. The townspeople's mob had grown. Now there were housewives out there along with the men, and all of them were screaming for him to be punished. Josiah looked around frantically for help. There was Olivia -- one of the men had her restrained, and she was crying nearly as hard as he was.  
"Please," he gasped through a sob. "Please, I didn't mean to--" His gaze swept over the yelling crowd. "You have to believe me, _please--" _That was when he saw the twigs and brush they were piling at his feet.  
  
And the torches.  
  
Josiah felt a scream rise in his throat.  
  


---  


  
Olivia shook her head frantically, pulling as hard as she could at the arms that restrained her.  
_"Stop it!" _she shrieked. She could see the sticks they were putting at the base of Josiah's pole, and she knew very well what they were going to do. _"Stop it, leave him alone! You don't know what those preachers did! Let him GO!" _Peter lowered the torch relentlessly towards the brush pile.  
"This boy," he shouted over the din of the crowd, "is a child of Satan and a cold-blooded murderer. He spilled the blood of the preachers in the cornfield, and so his blood will be spilled as well."  
_"NO!" _Olivia cried. Josiah, staring at the torch in horror, screamed once. One high, frightened scream, that's all -- but it made Olivia's ears ring. Peter paused, and for a moment, she thought that he had changed his mind. And then -- with a disdainful sneer -- he dropped the torch onto the brush pile.  
  
It caught flame immediately.  
  
The twigs and brush began to blaze at an alarming rate, leaping upwards and licking at the air. Josiah's pants caught fire after only a moment. The boy threw his head back and screamed again, long and wavering and full of pain. Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, praying to God that He'd stop the fire.  
  
He didn't.  
  
She opened her eyes, dimly aware of the sobs that were making her chest ache. The flames had spread up and were nearly engulfing Josiah. The boy was sobbing too; his shirt had caught fire by now and he was a living torch. Olivia shook her head in slow disbelief.  
"Lord, help him," she whispered, but it seemed that God was taking no part in this mess. God was elsewhere.  
  
Josiah was screaming steadily now, screaming as if it were the end of the world. And in many ways, Olivia thought hazily, it was -- didn't the Bible say that the world would end in fire? Besides -- it was certainly the end of Josiah's world. Olivia stopped struggling and surrendered to the hysterical sobs, unable to block the screams from her ears. He was screaming, screaming, screaming in pain and terror... _screaming...  
  
_Josiah was still screaming when Olivia passed out.  
  


---  


  
The next morning, Olivia woke up in her bed. For one, blessed moment, she thought it had all been a dream -- and then she saw the sheets.  
  
They were stained a dull rust red where Josiah had wiped his hands.  
  
She hurried to the window and ripped back the curtain. In the fields, the townspeople were bent over, gathering something -- what? Olivia squinted, biting back the rising tears, and saw that they were collecting Josiah's bones. Now a dry heave rose in her throat as well as the sobs and she clapped her hands over her mouth.  
"Oh God," she murmured to her palms. "Oh my dear God." Slowly, numbly, Olivia got back into bed. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. But it was no good -- in the darkness, the flames still burned, and in the silence, he still screamed. _It was the end of the world, _she thought dimly. _The end of his world.  
_  
Out in the fields, the last of Josiah's bones were gathered. They were uncerimonously bound and dropped into a well, where it was hoped his soul would be sealed forever.  
  
_The end of the world, _Olivia thought, and began to cry.  



	3. Author's Notes

These are some notes I felt I had to add to explain... well, to explain the feeling of this story.  
  
Yesterday -- September 11, 2001 -- I stayed home sick. At 11 a.m., I dragged my lazy butt out of bed and crawled towards the medicine cabinet for my Sudafed. Snuffling through my cold, I retreated into the living room and turned on the TV, ready to watch my usual sick-day shows: Maury, Jenny Jones, and that all time favorite, Jerry Springer. I was greeted with a Spielberg-esque explosion; a huge building just shook, and then slowly started to collapse. A jet plane stuck out of the side, still smoldering. My first thoughts were, "What a stupid movie." Honest to God. It took me thirty seconds to realize that it was on every channel -- that it was not a movie, the plane was not a prop, and the World Trade Center buildings really were being destroyed.  
  
With nothing else to do, I prayed and went back into my bedroom. After a little while, I sat down at my computer and brought up my most recent unfinished fic -- "End of the World" -- and started to write. I wrote four pages in the period of 5 and a half hours. My writing came in short little bursts, and besides -- I had to watch the news. After a while, it became too depressing and I switched to Cartoon Network instead.  
  
Yes, the ending of "End of the World" is rather dark. I had intended it to end that way, but after the carnage I stared at all day long, I think the angst took a deeper turn than I thought it would. Many instances in the last few paragraphs -- for instance, "God was elsewhere" -- are my own opinions on yesterday's tragedy. And another example, when Olivia puts her hands over her mouth and says "Oh God. Oh my dear God.", that was my exact reaction when I turned on the TV to see the WTC collapsing and the Pentagon in flames.  
  
And, on a happier note, I'd like to thank all my friends who put up with me while I wrote this. Thanks for your feedback and for just reading: Kelly, Mo, Amanda, Brandon, Rachael, Jackie, and David.  
  
In conclusion, I would like to dedicate this fic to all those who lost their lives in yesterday's horrible tragedy. I know this has absolutely no relevance whatsoever to what happened, but I feel I have to do something. ...yes, this is a sucky something, but it's something.  
  
Good luck to all and God bless.  



End file.
